If You Please
by Medea Arduinna
Summary: A short ficlet in which Hermione strikes a bargain and Draco speaks French.


If You Please  
by Eowyn, lady of Rohan  
  
Riiiiiiiiiiiing.  
Hermione peeled open her sleep-heavied eyes and squinted at the digital clock on her bedside table. It read 3:35. "In the morning, no less," she grumbled and pulled her pillow over her head, hoping it would shut out the incessant ringing of the phone. It didn't.  
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.  
If anything, it was growing louder. So, she did what any person would do - shot up to a sitting position, threw her pillow across the room at the opposite wall, and yanked the receiver off the cradle, yelling "WHAT?", her eyes stinging from being jolted from her two-hour slumber. It wasn't her fault the paperwork she'd gotten for being accepted into Aurorship was keeping her awake all hours, double-checking and re-reading, making sure she'd worded everything correctly and properly.  
"Hey, Granger!" said a cheerful, slightly drawled voice on the other end. She frowned.  
"MALFOY?" She decided she liked yelling in the wee hours of the morning over the telephone.  
"Always right, as usual. I was wondering if I could come over for a bit, you know, for a sort of late-night chat over some tea? If it's not inconvenient."  
"Malfoy, it is three thirty-five - no, thirty-six - in the morning - everything's inconvenient." She sighed. "But come anyway, I won't be able to get back to sleep now. And you be prepared to explain to me just what in bloody Merlin's name you're doing coming over at this time in the morning for a 'chat' for."  
"Fine with me! Thanks, love." She snorted as she laid the receiver back down.  
"'Love', who does he think he is? James bloody Bond?" She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, stuffing her feet into fuzzy leopard-print slippers and throwing on a very well-worn, tatty bathrobe she'd had since her fifth year, when she finally stopped growing and accepted she'd be 5'5 1/2" forever, the cuffs long come out and holes dotted it. Just as she levitated the kettle full of water over to the stove, she heard a pop behind her and rounded on the 6'1" lithe blonde boy - man - standing in her kitchen doorway, pointing her wand at his face.  
"I hate you, I hope you know."  
"Can't stand your guts either," he smirked and sat down at the round wooden table, drumming his fingers on the surface.  
"Stop that." He surprisingly did. She turned back around, refusing to face him while the water boiled, knowing it would drive him crazy if she didn't boil the water by magic. Make him wait a little while longer, she decided, the Muggle way. Her feeling of being proud of her nifty ways to make him irritated faded quickly at his next remark.  
"You know, that dressing gown really shows off your bum." Her mouth dropped as she whirled around to face him. He wasn't smirking, or grinning, or even frowning - his mouth was set in a straight line, his grey eyes devoid of all amusement.  
"This is why I wonder why I'm still friends with you."  
"It's not my fault you accepted my offer of a truce seventh year after you learned I was a spy, now was it? No, it wasn't, Granger, so if you will, please lower your wand. Or, I can say it in French if you like - Si vous plaît -"  
"Oh, shut up!" Hermione yelled. "Or, I can say it in French if you like - Fermez la bouche!"  
"Touché," he said with a wry grin. "I didn't know you spoke French."  
"Well, you do now, don't you?" The kettle whistled, and Hermione slammed it down on the table just centimeters from his hands. He grinned.  
"Merci beaucoup, mon amie,"  
"Shove it up your arse."  
"You have a lovely one." Her face turned red but he went on pouring his cup of tea, swirling the bag around leisurely, his eyes never meeting hers. "So, I bet you're wondering why I'd call you and ask for a bit of tea, aren't you? Look at you, squirming in your chair, dying to know."  
"No, not really," she said, attempting a casual voice, which didn't quite work.  
"Hmm, no? Well, I seem to recall your words from a few minutes prior - what were they? Oh, yes, 'And you be prepared to explain to me just what in Merlin's name you're doing coming over at this time in the morning for a 'chat' for'. That seems to be it."  
"I said 'bloody' Merlin, get it right," she glared at him and took a drink of the scalding tea, cursing aloud when it burned her tongue. He just smirked. "So, are you going to tell me, or just continue sneering like you love to do? You really do look like a ferret you know - what? It's the truth, and hey," she leaned over, "revenge is sweet."  
"Well," he sat back in his chair, waving his index finger over the brown liquid, causing steam to hiss some. A Cooling Charm, why didn't I think of that? "If you really must know, I found some information that you might enjoy showing your dearest friend. Accio files." A manilla folder zoomed in from the foyer, where he'd hung his cloak, and he passed it across the table to her. She opened it and found a stack of parchments, dated and written in a flowing, slanted script. Her mouth gaped wider and wider as she realized what they were.  
"Recordings of your father's meetings," she breathed.  
"Precisely," he said, looking smug as ever as he downed most of the cooled tea in one gulp, his long fingers wrapped around the cup. "Just thought you'd take pleasure in reading those to get more convicted - you know I'm one for rubbing the Minister's ignorant face in all the shit we know and the old fool doesn't." She shut the folder, and Banished it to her room, storing it in her bedside table for safekeeping.  
"Well, thank you," she said. "This will certainly be of service to us."  
"My pleasure," he said silkily, running a hand through his hair. "However, I do believe that this means you owe me a little something." Her eyebrows shot up.  
"Excuse me?" she sputtered. "I didn't ask for these, you... kindly... gave them to me. I do believe I owe you nothing. Nothing at all." He stood, and paced the length of the kitchen before leaning back against the counter. She stood, narrowing her eyes at the former Slytherin. "Oh, and did I mention I hate you?"  
"Yes, about eighty times in the last ten minutes I've been here."  
"Only once!"  
"Which, as anybody would know, easily translates to eighty in the Malfoy brain," she rolled her eyes. "You know what? I've not changed my mind about the files." She was moving closer to him. "There's nothing to strike a bargain for. You gave me the papers, you drank tea, now you can leave. We've had our chat; there's nothing more."  
"Oh, but there's so much more," he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling at the dressing gown. "There's this." With his other hand, he tangled his fingers in her hair, cupping her head as he dipped his to kiss her, pulling her body against his with the hand on her wrist. She didn't respond, but she didn't punch him or curse him either - which had to be a good sign. In truth, she didn't know why she was letting him kiss her - perhaps it was too early in the morning to care so much who the hell kissed her, or perhaps it was something she'd wanted for years. What in Merlin's name.... He drew back and grinned, his hand on her head sliding down to rest against the small of her back, then drift lower. "There's this." He kissed her again, this time his tongue fighting its way between her lips as she pressed back, her hands against his chest, pressing him to the counter.  
"Well," she said once they drew apart for the second time, "I think we could discuss a bargain." She grinned. "Would you like more tea?"  
"Oui, madame. Si vous plaît."  
FIN  
A/N: Forgive me if "Fermez la bouche" is off, I haven't been in French class for two months or so, and I'm not such a French whore in the summer. But review anyway! And keep in mind, Mo Rocca and Carter Oosterhouse belong to me. No, they're obviously not in this story (or you would've seen them... or read them, whichever), but you know... keep your hands off. Love you all! I really do. 


End file.
